An Angel's Kiss
by Misss-Nightmare
Summary: In which Aziraphale is naive, in more ways than one.


Aziraphale hates confrontations. They're always too _personal_, he doesn't like personal things. Personal things involving the higherups, to be completely accurate.

The hallway is long and precise. The corners cut too sharply for his taste. Any decoration might as well be no decoration at all - it blends in with everything else. Lace corners on tablecloths, white frames on paintings of those who were admired and respected so much in the community of angels. Of course Gabriel had his own painting, how could he not? He's the perfect angel - the king of them all, or so it seemed at times. It must get annoying to the rest of the archangels, Aziraphale thinks, to have him somehow above them all.

There's too much of the same in the place. The noises are always the same, the sounds, the appearance. The people…

It smells of vanilla - always of vanilla. He is sick of the scent. Don't get him wrong, the vanilla flavor is fine - good, even. But anything that vaguely reminds him of the perfectness of the angel headquarters got an instant rejection from his senses, even if it was a pleasant sensation on the tongue.

Opening the heavy gold handled door, he enters, carrying nothing with him except the clothing on his back. The outfit he had on was one of his favorites, a tartan overcoat, tweed pants, faux gold wristwatch. Crowley had called it preposterous - but Aziraphale knew he meant it was an amazing look for him.

Gabriel awaits him, as expected, as well as a few select others, those of which Aziraphale cannot recall the names of straight away, nor does he care to waste any effort in order to do so.

"Ah, Aziraphale! Come! Sit," Gabriel says, pulling out a large chair, which looks stiff and calculated - exactly like the rest of the place Aziraphale was coming to dislike more and more. He gives Gabriel a fake smile and sits down, the chair creaking as he does so. The room is silent save for a cough from one of the other archangels (Aziraphale can only expect so - they are all treating each other with the same amount of respect).

Gabriel claps his hands together and flashes his unnaturally white teeth. "How are you? How has Earth been? What have you been up to in your travels?"

Something isn't right - he's being way too _nice_.

"I've been good - Earth has been splendid," he replies happily. This is not untrue; for he had been enjoying his time rather thoroughly recently. He had not been asked to perform any divine acts in a while, so he had been free to busy himself as he had pleased. "I've been - seeing the world, I guess that's how one would describe it."

He actually had been spending a lot of that precious free time with Crowley, as he went about his little tasks given to him. Not that there had been anything inherently _wrong_ with that, he just wasn't going to mention it. Seeing the world is practically the same thing, anyways. He was traveling with Crowley, so there.

"Ah, well then. I'm certainly glad, aren't we all glad Aziraphale has been having a good time?" Gabriel asks, giving each of his friends a look over, to which they all smile and nod in unison. "Now, Aziraphale, you've had quite a long break from work, as you know."

There's a brief pause as Gabriel awaits a reaction from Aziraphale - he nods and then the archangel continues:

"You have a new task as of late. It involves bringing a demon to us for questioning." Gabriel then plays a devilish (how ironic) grin upon his lips.

"For questioning?" Aziraphale repeats, intertwining his fingers.

He has begun doing this more frequently, the fingers thing, he thinks he picked it up off a young girl in Sweden that he spent some time with. Her mother had left her and her father when she was only eight, the poor thing. Aziraphale had only stepped by their little restaurant for a moment to grab a bite for lunch, but had ended up staying for hours talking with the girl, about her mother, her father, her school, her little doll named Brazil. The things little girls like talking about, and Aziraphale had stayed and listened to her talk.

She had seemed very happy to have some company, and he had been happy to oblige. The whole while she was talking her hands had been on the table, her fingers intertwined, dancing like little puppets. He had not taken much thought to it at the time, but she had apparently not left him unscathed, for he is now doing the same under the intense stress that he did not even know he was under.

How strange.

"Yes, and I suspect you know a little something about the demon named Crowley? Surely you've heard of him…"

Aziraphale feels uneasy, looks around the all too clean room at all the listening faces, then to Gabriel.

"I've heard of him."

It's not a lie.

"Good! Then you'll have no problem tracking him down for us, then. Bring him here by the end of the week. Oh, and, Aziraphale?" he asks, as Aziraphale makes his way towards the door. Aziraphale turns to face him once again. "Don't mess this up. We know how well you know him, it can't be that hard."

"Only for questioning, nothing else?"

"Why, yes! Nothing else, just trying to get an edge in their plans before the great event, am I right? Now don't disappoint us, Aziraphale. We're counting on you!" A bright smile, which Aziraphale does not return, is given and then they depart.

"I never have understood sports. Out of all the pleasures that humans delve into, I just can't grasp it," Crowley says, as he watches the football fly across the field in front of them. "It looks so painful. They're putting their bodies through hell, all for what? For fame?"

A short man catches the ball downfield, the crowd roaring in response, and he runs as fast as his legs can possibly take him, before he's tackled by three players on the opposite team, bringing him down with a crash. Aziraphale does a little miracle and helps the man's head feel a bit better than it would've. The boy gets up without missing a beat.

"For love," Aziraphale answers, and Crowley gives him a surprised look.

"For love? Aziraphale, that's not an answer I would normally expect from you."

The man gets up, and immediately looks to the stands, at a girl who is waving frantically at him - he smiles and mouths something to her that Aziraphale can only assume she understands. They must know each other.

"I'm not in a normal mood," he replies. The crowd roars again, this time for a reason Aziraphale doesn't understand. The lights and music go brighter, louder, and Aziraphale wants out. "Can we leave now?"

Crowley seems to have been in a daze that Aziraphale breaks him out of. "Oh? Yes, that's probably for the best. Boring lot here anyways." He subtly snaps his fingers once, and they reappear in the old bookshop on the corner street avenue. Dust is misplaced by their arrival, but it's nothing Aziraphale can't take care of later. He dusts himself off, looking around the room as if deciding what to do next.

"Are you okay, angel? You've been acting awfully strange this evening. First it was the skipping of the entrée at dinner, then you said we should try something new together so I said okay, and _then_ you tell me you want to leave early anyways."

Crowley pours himself a glass of wine, the bottle had not been there before. The cork pops with a satisfying sound and he fills his glass up to the brim, bubbles top it elegantly and they look absolutely delicious from where Aziraphale is standing. Crowley seems to take note of this, and pours a second glass, handing it over to his friend with a smirk.

"You look like you could use a few of these," he winks. Aziraphale gladly takes it, his cheeks filling with color despite himself. He downs half of it in one swift gulp. "Now, our last conversation here had been about new furniture. I'm thinking a look a little more modern, don't you think?" Crowley sprawls himself over the couch, all limbs and lanky legs, and takes off his glasses, setting them on the side table. "I'm not very into this… used grandpa look myself."

Aziraphale shrugs.

"It works, though," is his brief response. He finishes the glass and quickly pours himself another.

Crowley slowly sips his own drink, and watches Aziraphale carefully, narrowing his demonic eyes. "You're hiding something from me," he says, sitting up and putting his limbs back in a normal human position. He looks bettwe sprawled out. "Something serious."

Aziraphale squints at him and shakes his head. "No, Crowley, it's not that. I just - we need to go somewhere. Together," he adds quickly, feeling the guilt already pooling up inside of him, making his hands feel numb - or maybe that's just the wine.

Gabriel had insisted that it was only for questioning. Crowley would never go on his own, let along _willingly_ if he knew what was coming. He was never one for conversations with any of the other angels, let alone ones that would actually take place in the holy grounds themselves. Aziraphale admits he isn't so sure what will happen to Crowley once he steps foot there, but if they are asking him to bring him there - it mustn't be that bad, right?

Besides, if Aziraphale doesn't bring him, someone else will. And he knows whoever else assigned the job wouldn't take gently care of Crowley like he would.

"I like the sound of that, where to? France? New York? Or maybe Rome - oh we haven't been to Rome in so long, Angel! I wonder how much it's changed-"

"Actually I was thinking I would surprise you," he says, the words feel like poison leaving his lips. He fiddles with his now empty glass. "I'll take you somewhere you've never been before."

Crowley slams his drink down and claps his hands together in excitement. "Well, what are we waiting for? I don't need to pack, I'm ready now!" he puts his glasses back on and stands, pulling his shirt down and fixing the collar. Aziraphale sheepishly looks at the floor beneath them, and gathers the courage to stand.

"Well, alright," he replies, setting down his glass and mustering up the courage to look Crowley in the face.

"Off we go, then!" Crowley exclaims.

Aziraphale's hands are shaking as he snaps his fingers together, disappearing from the cozy bookshop that he will not return to for what will feel like a long, long time.

They stumble forward together, Crowley falls to the clean floor, face first. His glasses break on contact, the lenses shattering, scattering across the floor. Aziraphale has never seen a mess in headquarters, yet the moment Crowley arrives he makes one.

"You - you didn't -" Crowley stutters as he attempts to grab at his glasses.

"'Ello Aziraphale, didn't expect to see you so soon, actually," a fellow principality says in greeting. He is tall and handsome, and Aziraphale Is afraid Crowley is staring. "Gabriel is in a very important meeting at the moment, but you can wait in his office and I'll let him know you're here with the - suspect," he says, giving Crowley a disgusted look as he gets to his feet. He's looking down at the broken pieces of his glasses, then up at Aziraphale with a look equally as broken on his face.

They walk down the hallway in silence. Crowley's boots echo throughout the empty corridors, the only noise heard, save for Aziraphale's ragged breathing.

Once they're in the room, closed off together, Crowley strides across the room, around the table and turns to Aziraphale with a vicious look in his eyes that Aziraphale's never seen before.

"How could you?!" Crowley growls, slamming his hands on the round table in between them. "I - I thought we were friends!"

That one hurts.

"We are friends, Crowley! I was only doing as I was told. It's only a bit of questioning and that's all!" he consoles, shaking his head. He wishes that Crowley would understand that he had meant no harm at all, that he was _helping _him.

"'Only a bit of questioning?'" Crowley mocks, biting his lip and gazing across the room. He turns, crossing his arms, and strides to the corner of the room. Aziraphale swears he can hear him hissing. "There's no way in heaven nor hell do they just want me here for questioning, Aziraphale." He says this darkly.

"Please understand that even if I didn't bring you, they would get someone else who would. And - and I know I would not hurt you bringing you here and they promised me it was only questioning and you wouldn't be hurt. Oh, please don't be angry with me!"

Even though Aziraphale can't see his face, he can tell Crowley relaxes somewhat. His shoulders sag lower, he sighs almost silently. He turns, looking frustrated, but takes a seat anyways. "How could you possibly believe them? After all we've been through! Everything that-"

"They're my superiors! Of course I believe them, they're on my side, Crowley. I am devoted to them and them to me, we all serve a common purpose and-"

"Oh, yes, it's the almighty, I get it, right. Save it," he says, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He looks away, anywhere but at Aziraphale. The angel is about to say something else in attempt to make things better (or it make himself feel better? He's not sure anymore), but the door slams open suddenly, startling the both of them.

"Ah! Very good, Aziraphale, three days before your deadline! I'm impressed," Gabriel says as he walks in, closely followed by three other angels. He looks sharp, as always, in a well tailored suit, complete with a navy tie and shoes that shone as if freshly polished. "You can leave the room for this, you won't be needed," he adds, motioning for Aziraphale to move.

His mouth falls agape and he stares dumbly at Crowley as Sandalphon grabs the demon's skinny arm. "But I- Can't I just stay and-"

"No, Aziraphale. Please leave, make it easy on yourself."

Aziraphale hesitates once more, causing Gabriel to huff and roll his eyes before snapping his own fingers together, making the angel disappear from the room.

He is returned to Earth, on the outside corner of his bookshop in downtown London.

"No! No no no no - no!" he shouts. Passerby stare at him as he continues shouting strings of nonsense. "This can't be happening! No - this is all my fault - this can't be. They won't do anything to him - no - they wouldn't. Calm down Aziraphale, everything will be alright. Yes," he nods fervently, rubbing his hands together. He searches for his bookshop key, finds it, and lets himself in.

He makes himself a spot of tea and sips it while reading the works of Shakespeare. Every line reminds him of Crowley. The words don't have anything to do with the demon, yet they do.

It is a long, hectic evening.

He leans over and miracles a fire in the fireplace in the back of his shop. It has gotten cold out, and Crowley would like the warmth once he returns. He pokes at it a bit, turning the logs this way and that, attempting to get the perfect angle of warmth. It's soon now, he can feel it. He hopes that it is, at the very least. He can feel Crowley's presence get nearer.

He drops the book in his hand and stares into the fire, the heat burning his eyes somewhat.

"What's happened?" he whispers. He rushes over to his desk and searches for his glasses, a pair that Crowley had bought him in a little trinket shop he had found in a nook of Edinburgh years ago. Once found, he puts them on and begins searching. He ruffles through the scattered papers on his desk, and when he doesn't find what he wants, throws them to the floor in frustration. He rushes to the bookshelves, pulling books out then pushing them back in, searching, looking for something to confirm his suspicions…

A snake is behind him, no - not a snake - a human form. Crowley is collapsed on the braided rug in the center of the floor in front of the fire. He's moaning in agony, clutching his chest. Aziraphale drops the book in his hands, rushing over to his friend and kneeling beside him.

"Oh, Crowley! Oh, what did they do, what have I done?"

"Aziraphale, I hope all is well?" Gabriel asks, standing above the two of them on the floor. Aziraphale looks up, suppressing the anger inside as best he can. It's burning his chest, begging to burst out and lash at Gabriel.

"What did you do to him? You said only questioning!" he exclaims, rising and meeting Gabriel's eyes with his own. Gabriel smiles, that large, deceiving smile he has (oh, Aziraphale should have known), showing his perfectly aligned teeth.

"Look, he wouldn't give us the answers we needed, so - desperate times call for desperate measures, hm? Surely you understand this. Now, if you'll kindly, um, dispose of him, later? That would be so kind of you. I never like dealing with that part," he says, a look of disgust on his face as he peers down at Crowley's limp body. He kicks lightly at him, rolling him over a bit in order to see his face.

He's bloody, there's blood _everywhere_. There shouldn't be blood - there should _not_ be blood. Crowley can't bleed; Crowley can't-

"Ick. Yes, thank you for doing this, Aziraphale. Once again, this will be viewed greatly and most definitely put on your record as an outstanding achievement. Well done."

Aziraphale looks at him dumbly.

"Well, cherry-o! Isn't that what the humans are saying nowadays? Goodbye, then," he says, and he's gone as quickly and swiftly as he had come.

Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves and kneels beside Crowley, turning him to lie on his back.

"Speak to me, Crowley," he says calmly, unbuttoning the demon's tight black shirt. Crowley coughs, spitting up blood. His eyes open slightly, but close soon after. He's still breathing, he's alive. "What has happened, why aren't you healing?" he asks, even though he knows already.

Crowley's arms clutch his stomach and he coughs again, turning onto his side. Aziraphale's hands search his now bare chest, his shirt open, and he feels over the gashes, long and deep. He can't tell what they used, but he looks burned, beaten, bruised… How could they? Aziraphale had _trusted_ them. What had they even wanted from him?

"I don't understand - what happened, Crowley? Why did they hurt you?"

"Wouldn't answer," he says, eyes finally opening. He blinks through tears, up into the angel's eyes.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "But why? What were they asking that made you so opposed?" Aziraphale stands, rushing back over towards his desk, and pulls out several bottles of unknown contents. He carries them over, opening each and smearing a blue gel onto Crowley's wounds.

It does nothing, there is still blood pouring out at an alarming rate. It's unlike any wound he's ever dealt with, not that he's dealt with many at all.

Crowley's skin is scaly on his lower chest - he's reverting. His body is giving out on him.

"They asked about - about you. About us, but it's OK. I didn't tell them. I didn't tell them you were my friend - my best friend. Never would I."

"You're dying - they made you mortal," he says, lowly. Eyes welling up with tears. Crowley nods once, and Aziraphale crawls over the floor to reach the book he had dropped earlier. He flips several pages to the back, muttering to himself. Crowley starts crying, out loud now.

"I'm scared, angel," he cries, his body shaking as he sobs. The rug is stained elegantly red, the pool only growing larger the more seconds that go by. Aziraphale is by his side, and he grabs onto his hand, holding tightly. "I don't want to die."

Aziraphale is shaking too. He's also crying, but he does his best not to let the demon know this. He sets the book down, taking off his glasses as he does. He licks his lips sheepishly and looks deep into the demon's eyes that he has grown to love over the centuries. They're filled with more sadness than he's ever seen in them, they're filled with pain.

Aziraphale can fix that.

"I won't let you," Aziraphale says quietly, as he leans down and presses his lips to Crowley's. It's gentle but not orchestrated. They're lips dance in silence, Crowley's body reacting in ways that not even he knew where possible. Aziraphale's eyes are closed, he has no way of knowing if Crowley's are open.

He tastes so delectable, unlike anything he's ever tasted before. Better than the finest pasta in Paris, better than the best wine in Scotland, better than freshly made scones on a crisp autumn day.

The blood beneath them dries, the burns and cuts heal themselves, as if time were being rewound onto a spindle. Crowley takes in a deep breath, as if filling his lungs to full capacity after being held underwater for hours. He gasps for more air, grabbing onto Aziraphale's shoulder.

"It's okay - breathe slowly, breathe deep," the angel says, stroking his fingers through Crowley's auburn strands. He has the sudden urge to kiss him once again.

"What did you do to me?" he asks, sitting up and scooting closer towards the fire. He looks down, amazed at the sight of his healed chest, buttoning his shirt up after he looks. "I don't understand-"

"An angel's kiss," Aziraphale says, and that's all he had to say before Crowley gets it.

"You - you didn't have to do that. I know what it means."

The fire cackles behind him, Crowley closes his eyes as if he were devouring the heat into his body - his once again immortal body.

"I wanted to. I was the foolish one who had trusted them enough to not hurt you… This was all my fault and I'm so sorry, Crowley," he says, crawling over to sit beside the demon. "It's worth it for you. You would've died and I couldn't have that on myself."

"But you-"

"I know, Crowley. I know. It's okay now, just…" Aziraphale trails. He looks over at the demon, whose pale skin was beautiful in the firelight. His eyes so yellow and wide, lips just as plump as they had been when he first kissed them. Now that he's had a taste, he simply must try it again - to see. To see if it was really as good as it felt the first time.

"Again?" Crowley asks, as if he needs permission.

Aziraphale indulges him.


End file.
